I found myself in Maine this week. Touching base with clients and prospective clients. Noting the color of the trees and the cool nights, I inquired about the stripers and asked if they had moved south yet. "No," I was told, "they're usually around until mid-October."
I did my job and worked my way from Biddeford to Bar Harbor. The 8 wt tucked into my luggage made an appeal at night as I checked into each hotel.
And then, like Poe's Madman, the plea's from my Tell-Tale 8wt became too much and on Thursday I made a mad dash to a spot south of Portland where I'd had some luck with Stripers in the past.
I fished the falling tide and was rewarded with a strong fish that peeled backing and made my arm sore. Another angler, from PA, interested in the tussle was kind enough to take my camera and shoot a few photos. (Thanks PA guy.)
As a friend of mine is fond of saying in justification for night fishing: "All it takes is one".
"....When I was five I was just alive But now I am six, I'm as clever as clever; so I think I'll be six now for ever and ever". A.A. Milne
My fine friend "T" called me a couple weeks ago and suggested that he may bring his six year old son to a favorite trout stream where we, in the past (before six year olds), spent many hours fishing, staring at fires and sleeping in tents. He thought it might be a good idea if I joined him and brought my 5 year old daughter along. The two kids had never met except when they were too small to recall. And so the pencil on the calendar became pen and we went.
T and I never really had any grand illusions of converting these children into lifelong fly fishing addicts, but it wasn't entirely off the menu. We did manage to get the kids to hold an actual flyrod, but the creek and bugs, dirt and toads were too much of a distraction. So, we stood on the banks of a fine trout stream, bathed in the warm September sun, sipped beer and allowed that though trout fishing is a fine way to spend a day...so is being a father.
They swam and laughed, fell and skipped, caught crayfish, toads and grasshoppers. They played and played and played.
Never a quarrel was heard, nor a discipline required. After dinner as we sat near the fire T's son turned in his camp chair and said sleepily, "Dad.... I'm not sure why, but this S'more is cheering me up."
And that, was worth the price of admission.
The other thing to do with a blue ribbon trout stream.
T and I decided a size 6 olive/gold woolly bugger tied on a Mustad 9671 would match this nicely.
Oblivious of trout
This steep bank on the spring creek provided hours of entertainment.
No amphibians were harmed during the posting of this blog
This is about the sum total of our fishing lessons
My two year old "caught" her first fish. I cast, I set, we reeled, she squealed. "It hopped out of the watto!", she cried, after this smallmouth gave a 3' leap next to the dock.
My older brother drove down for a night out on the sand islands of the Big W. I was hoping to show him the River and a few of it's smallmouth residents. I forgot that it was Labor Day weekend. The smallmouth were also on vacation. All was not lost however. The traffic died down at dusk and the cool evening kept the bugs away. The beer was cold, the river quiet and the tent camping was perfect. We did manage to fool a few SMB's, but the dry fly fishing for mooneye was hot. We tried some twilight gar fishing with crease flies, but didn't connect.
It was great to spend time on the water and around the campfire with you bro. Thanks for making the trip! Island campsite
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